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Ch. 6: The Pain of Forest
Back to Arheled When Ronnie woke up in the house of the Lanes, the first thing he felt was the quiet. It scarcely felt alive. The rich, luxurious furniture, luxurious not with the opulence of a palace but with the queer half-common half-class look of modern ease, put him in an awkward mood. He felt vaguely as if he was trespassing. It was still very early, practically dawn. Looking out the window Ronnie saw the odd figure of the man from the vanished time seated on a rock at the edge of the yard. Their eyes met, and Wayham lifted his hand. In his socks Ronnie could move without even a whisper of sound save for the creak of his own joints. He slipped down the beautiful hall, past opening angles in angular yet graceful directions. The walls were deep quiet colors, deep dark blue and cranberry-red and green-olive, with white trim and borders, producing a sober but rich effect. A great television towered in the main room in the middle of the house in a wood cabinet. The floors were polished hardwood. Tall artificial-looking potted plants stood around, and rugs ran down the center of the floors. How anybody could live in a place like this without going crazy he had no idea. Unlocking the door he slipped on his sneakers and closed it carefully, then headed across the lawn to the old pioneer. “Morning.” said Wayham. “Good morning, Mr. Lane.” said Ronnie. “Wayham, Wayham.” the other said irritably, flapping his hand. “There’s plenty of Lanes here. So how did you find the interior?” “A bit too high-class for my taste.” “Just how I felt the one time Travel showed me through.” Wayham agreed. “You would think old Rufus was a lord in Parlyment. Yet Travel assures me most upper-class homes are like that. Or houses, I should say; no home would ever be so…formal, so stiff, with such perfect walls and floors you’re afraid you’ll breathe mud on them. Not like Crimella’s house there. Old beams and wood walls and hand-carved decorations.” “Were the Lost Caves open in your day?” asked Ronnie. “Couldn’t find them? That paper of yours said they had been blasted.” “The Wild Man of Winsted opened them…” “Don’t tell me yet!” laughed Wayham, holding up his hand. Crimella would never forgive me if I stole the first telling. “They were open in my day, though even then half blocked at the mouth. I did not go there much, for it felt evil, and the shamans came often, and I do not like them. In my day there were few witches or she-magic; all Indians then. Medicine men. But that cave is a strange place. One well moans. And if you went in far enough, you came to the waterfall, and there my candles always went out.” Travel came outside, yawning and looking groggy, her clothes as rumpled as if she’d slept in them. “Hi guys.” she mumbled. “You have to talk so loud? You woke me right up.” “I keep forgetting how much daylight you people waste.” said Wayham. “Dawn was the latest I stayed abed.” Grandmother Lane emerged onto her porch, pulling her shawl close. The cloudy morning was cool but very humid; already drops of rain were falling. “I thought I heard you arrive.” she said. “Do you have enough sense to come in out of the rain? Breakfast is ready.” “Sounds good to me.” chuckled Wayham, getting up. “I wish I’d had her with me back when I used to live here. Never tasted better grub.” “Wayham is prone to exaggerate.” said Grandmother Lane serenely. “What happened at the Lost Caves?” “They are no longer lost.” said Ronnie as he came inside. “They are hidden.” Travel went to use the bathroom, but Wayham and Grandmother listened very closely as Ronnie told of the happenings on Knapp Hill. When he described the enigmatic words of the Witch of Winchester, Wayham spoke up. “I sat in that chair.” he said. “I scoffed at it, deeming it superstition, and to defy the tremble in my heart I sat in it.” “What did you see?” Ronnie said. “Would your desire be slaked if I told you, or would it rather not be whetted unbearably?” Wayham said dryly. “I saw darkly. I saw as if through a black mirror, in which everything appears distorted, appears shadowed and unlike itself. I looked abroad with the eyes of Morgoth. And when I rose from that chair…I was no longer in the world of men.” “Húrin.” whispered Travel. “The chair of Húrin. The chair upon Thangorodrim.” Shaken, Ronnie resumed his tale. He told of his fruitless search and the sarcastic words of the Wild Man, and his sad, mocking poem. He told of the opening of the Caves and the walk within, of the mystical well and of the terrible voice in the darkness, and at last told of the breaking of the chain that bound the ancient Enemy. “Do you have that ring?” said Grandmother Lane. Travel took from her pocket the ring of Barahir, and the silver serpents gleamed in the early morning, their bodies braided, their heads beneath a crown of golden flowers, one supporting, one consuming. In their eyes the gems of Valinor burned green like minute stars. “Keep it for us, Grandmother.” he said, giving it to her. Until the Wayfinder declares who should wear it.” Grandmother Lane attached it to the chain around her neck that held a small golden crucifix. “I will do so gladly, Ronnie.” she said. August came quietly. The blueberries continued to yield a vast harvest; Ronnie’s weekly pickings often yielded two or more gallons. The heat came and went. There was rain now and again; rather a surprise in this driest of months. One night in the first week of August the blueberries kept Ronnie so late evening was drawing down as he left. He coasted down Rugg Brook Rd. The air was pleasant warm-cool, a soft summer smell pervading it. Brown leaves, seared by the heat waves, had fallen from the maples and littered the gutters, and that and the cool steady air reminded Ronnie of autumn. Strange how swift this year drew by, he thought, like a river rushing toward some terrible end. Or maybe it was just a side effect of growing older; he had turned 31 a month ago, and yet this summer seemed to have been only a month long. A red maple overhead was sprinkled with scarlet leaves at the end of its’ twigs, and red jewels strewed the street and forest floor nearby. “It does feel like September.” he said aloud. Blue evening closed down as he entered Winsted. He felt tired and stiff from standing under bushes all day, and decided a nice swim at Highland Lake would make him feel better before the ride home. Accordingly he walked up the steep plunging streets that climb out of the Winsted Valley, up onto the high depression the ancient lake occupies. The katydids creaked their rasping notes, several groups in chorous as it seemed, each group a good hundred feet apart and each sounding off just after the other. “''Chid-id, chid-id, ka-ty, katy-did, katy-didn’t, katy-did.”'' they echoed in the high trees on the east side of Woodland. Ronnie pedalled around the boat launch and pulled up on the little corner of grass at that end of the beach, where the portapot and the cement handicap ramp leading into the water were. The pale heads of one or two other night-swimmers—girls, he was delighted to see—showed sleek and disembodied out on the dark water. Orange and blueish lights made queer sparkles on the wave-tossed water; boats still passed even this late. Ronnie changed and headed into the water. It was delightfully warm after the first coolness of immersion. “Hey, Ronnieee!” squealed one of the girls, splashing toward him. Her two companions looked a little askance at this older guy their friend was greeting with such enthusiasm, and edged off a little farther along the beach. “Bell! How are you doing?” Ronnie exclaimed. “Big news going on lately,” he went on in a lower voice. “You heard?” “After that eye-searing wall of text you sent us, heck yeah.” “Hey, I did indent my paragraphs.” protested Ronnie. “So, how do you like my old house?” “Oh, there was a little incident with the landlord being a double-dealing crook, but other than that, pretty good. How’s life on the Island?” Bell’s face closed. “Okay.” she said shortly. Ronnie gave her an odd, appraising look. “Don’t tell me,” he said slowly, “you and Forest already had a fight.” “Not really.” burst out Bell. “He avoids me all the time, and when he’s in the same room he just looks at me with those odd eyes of his. Like he hates me.” “What exactly did you do to start this? Come on, it must have been something; Forest doesn’t start fights. Did you ridicule his paintings?” “I sorta threw a bucket of water at him and he was painting and I didn’t know it.” she mumbled. Ronnie whistled. “That would do it.” he said thoughtfully. “I’ll talk to him….but in the meantime, just try being nice to him. Have you said you’re sorry yet?” “I tried, and he bit my head off.” “Well, try again. He might have cooled off by now. If that fails…we’ll have to take it up with Arheled.” The very next morning Ronnie pulled up in front of the gate at Wintergreen Island. Hunter Light’s car was there, but not Mrs. Lake’s. Ronnie let himself in the gate and knocked on the door. Bell answered it. She looked like she’d been crying. “We can’t find him anywhere.” she said. “Mom last saw him at supper. We’re worried.” Ronnie frowned. An odd gleam flickered for a moment in his deep-set eyes. “I’ll take a look.” he said shortly. “Which room is his?” Bell pointed it out. Ronnie stalked up the stairs, hands clenched into fists. He stood in the doorway, turning his head slowly. His eyes were flickering now with a red light. He whirled and raced downstairs, then outside. Slowly he stalked around the Island. The red light in his pupils shone as bright as hot metal. Suddenly he paused, staring fixedly at the brushy corner with the cloven rock. “Your power has grown, Forest.” he said. There was no answer. “You are able to conceal yourself not only from your family, but even from your sister who is under the Road.” The red light in his eyes grew to a flame. “But my power too has grown!” The air rippled and shimmered before him, as if become fluid, or as if a veil was trying to remain. Then suddenly there was a snap and a crash, and Ronnie rrocked but did not give back, and there stood Forest. “Ah, there you are.” said Ronnie easily. “Your mom is worried.” “Is she worried?” Forest’s voice sounded as rusty as if days had passed since he spoke. “I hear you had a tiff.” said Ronnie. “I want her to be worried. I want her to know what it means to lose something. As I lost something.” “That picture.” said Ronnie. “What was it of?” “We’ll never know now, will we?” howled the boy; it was shocking beyond belief to see such violent emotion from so dreamy and quiet a person. “It was important. You don’t understand. You don’t know. You never Saw!” “You must remember the main image!” “The first flash is the only, and once that goes, that’s it.” Forest seethed. “Of course I know the image. But I can’t incarnate it!” “Tell me in words, then.” Forest drooped. His fiery eyes dimmed. “Death.” he whispered. “It was of an end. He was there. Walking. They all lay broken. I saw blue lightning, power rising up in tremendous might and majesty unthinkable beyond all guessing; and He was leaning forward, like this,” Forest put one leg back, one leg forward bent at the knee, leaning down, his right arm arching forward, hand splayed, “and he was just '' squishing'' the blue, steadily, down, and he was black as nothingness, but two eyes burned sadly in his awful head. It was mournful and awful like eerie wailing music. And it’s gone!” Ronnie whistled. “I can see why that would be hard.” he said. “But did it never occur to you that perhaps God doesn’t want it painted yet?” “But that doesn’t make sense!” “Maybe the time isn’t ripe for it. Maybe the warning was in the image described, not the painting of it.” Forest’s face closed like a trap. “That still doesn’t excuse her.” “She is your sister.” “By blood, maybe. Arheled does not lie. But not any other way. She is no sister to me.” “I do hope you haven’t cursed her!” Forest gave him a scornful look. “I’m not stupid.” he snapped. “What are you here for, anyway? Did she send you?” Ronnie stared at him in a dignified silence. “Why don’t you just go away?!” Forest exploded. He sounded close to tears. Then turning on his heel he broke into a run, and as he did he vanished from sight. '' “Forest!”'' Ronnie roared. “''In the name of Arheled, come back here!”'' Forest flickered back into view as Ronnie’s eyes began to burn red, showing him halted, irresolute, under the spruce trees. “Forest.” Ronnie said. “Forgive her.” Forest’s face twisted and he raced around the corner of the house. Ronnie’s shoulders drooped. With slow, defeated steps he walked back up the drive and got on his bike. Wintergreen Island stood cool and dusty, brown leaves bordering the drive. Then he headed off. How dare he. How dared he! Forest’s face burned as he ran around the house and took shelter behind a tree. He didn’t trouble to crouch. No one could see him unless he met their eyes. No one except Ronnie. That old busybody, what business did he have, coming here like that! Forgive her. At the very thought, the pain of that lost image, defined but fading, so terrible and sorrowful but now never to be incarnated, tore through him again. He hungered to call it down and give it form; he knew somehow that it was important, even urgent; yet every time he tried now the results were so flaccid compared to that first vivid drawing, that in fury he would destroy it. It was lost, so sad and beautiful, that tremendous conquering, it was lost and he could never find it. It was too bad his parents worried as well. Sometimes when Mom cried his will was sorely tested, and he wanted so much to lift his eyes and meet hers, and stop her tears. But then she would know, too, and his revenge would be undone. Forgive her? He could never. He got up to sneak inside. He was hungry, and if no one was in the kitchen he could snitch from the fridge. Coming out from behind the tree he froze. Arheled was walking toward him. His face was majestic, even terrible; his eyes burned like stern stars, and about him flowed a great cloak of some luminous white cloth, sparkling like snow. Forest lowered his eyes and crept under a thick branch. “Are you trying to Hide, from '' me?” said the Warden in White, and his voice vibrated in the very ground at Forest’s feet. ''“Come out.” Forest, his feet dragging, slowly stood up, as if compelled. “I cannot be Hided from, Forest.” said Arheled. “Answer me. Why do the tears of your parents cry up from this island?” Forest would not answer, nor lift up his eyes. “Answer me. Why do the tears of your sister cry out like blood on your account?” “She destroyed my painting.” he muttered. “''So!''” roared Arheled. The strength of his anger slammed Forest against a tree. He felt his flesh bruising and bones creaking; he could not breathe; and for the first time he felt a jolt of fear, as one does when nearly slipping during a perilous climb. “''So paint runs thicker than blood in your veins, does it?!” '' He shook Forest with one hand as if about to throttle him. ''“What excuse can you make for this sin against your sister?!” '' “It was important!” wailed Forest. “Then it will return in its’ own time. Her tears cry out against you. Why do you grieve your sister?” “She is no sister to me!” “You grew up with her.” “I don’t remember it!” “As I feared.” muttered Arheled, letting go of him. Forest sagged against the tree, great wheezing breaths rushing into him. He wanted to run, to slink sullenly away and hide somewhere. Where people would leave him alone. “There is no other way….save for you to unlock your own bars.” His hand stretched toward Forest, long, longer than a hand could be, and it was burning like blue flame and Forest could not move, and then the hand of fire clamped down over his eyes and upper face. The two figures stood, one tall and cloaked in white, one small in pale clothes, unmoving for a long time, behind the house on Wintergreen Island. Back to Arheled